


the haunting of bill denbrough

by dorkysetters



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drug Use, Established Relationship, F/M, Found Family, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Ghosts, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Trauma, eddie is gay, this is not a reddie fic i Promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-07 22:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20983118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkysetters/pseuds/dorkysetters
Summary: George Denbrough had been dead five long years the night he woke his brother Bill up at one in the morning.Bill shot up, heart pounding painfully in his chest. Reality took hold and screamed dead dead dead your fault into his ears. The real Georgie was miles below where Bill sat now, probably already rotted down to the bone, surrounded by the other dead children of Derry. Georgie was dead. This could be a dream, a hallucination, the aftereffects of the really shitty weed he’d shared with Beverly the day before, but it could not really be Georgie. And yet, some hopeful part of Bill’s heart begged for it to be real, for one more chance to hold his brother.Or,Bill is haunted, Richie is in love with more than half of his childhood friends, Eddie isn't gay, and Stanley can't sleep.





	1. prologue

George Denbrough had been dead five long years the night he woke his brother Bill up at one in the morning. 

For just a moment, in the split second it took for Bill’s eyes to adjust to the darkness and remind his brain exactly where he was, Bill was thirteen again and Georgie was alive. Around that time of their lives, Georgie had woken Bill up quite often in the middle of the night, searching for somewhere safe from whatever lay waiting for him in the dark and someone brave and strong, someone like Bill, to protect him from it. Bill would make a scene- they were getting too old to sleep together, really- but they both knew sooner or later Bill would roll his eyes a final time and pull aside the covers, making room for Georgie to join him. 

The Georgie that stood beside Bill’s bed now looked scared enough for this scenario to be true. His eyes, heavy with fear and wet with tears he seemed to be desperately trying to keep from spilling out, were wide against his pale skin. Bill had seen this look many times; it was the face of a child who has fallen off their bike unexpectedly and, by skinning their knee, suddenly realized that they are not invincible. Overall, Georgie’s expression was a familiar one. But there was something else in his face too, something that woke Bill up completely and increased the tempo of his heartbeat by a couple dozen beats. 

Fear. 

Not any type of fear- not the kind that used to bring Georgie running to Bill’s room in the middle of the night, nor the kind that prompted Bill to check under his bed every now and then before bed, just to make sure nothing was hiding there. The fear in Georgie’s eyes was the kind that made a heavy nest in your stomach and stayed there forever, or as long as you had left to feel things, anyway. It was powerful enough to break your mind into tiny pieces. Bill had seen this fear reflected on the faces of his friends many times during the summer they’d delved deep into Derry’s sewer system. And he saw it written plainly across Georgie’s face now. 

Georgie’s eyes, wide and troubled, were filled with it. It was as though, if Bill looked really hard, he might see Georgie’s last memories reflected there. His last memories, ones of clowns and sewers and a brother who’d pretended to be sicker than he really was so he wouldn’t have to spend a second longer with his annoying, god-awful little sibling. 

Bill shot up, heart pounding painfully in his chest. Reality took hold and screamed _dead dead dead your fault _into his ears. The real Georgie was miles below where Bill sat now, probably already rotted down to the bone, surrounded by the other dead children of Derry. Georgie was dead. This could be a dream, a hallucination, the aftereffects of the really shitty weed he’d shared with Beverly the day before, but it could not really be Georgie. And yet, some hopeful part of Bill’s heart begged for it to be real, one more chance to hold his brother. He frantically rubbed whatever sleep was left from his eyes, sure Georgie would be gone when he looked again with fresh eyes. 

But Georgie stayed put, looking as frightened and pitiful as before.

_God_, Bill thought. _I’d almost forgotten what he looked like_. 

And it really did look like Georgie, whatever stood beside Bill’s bed in a yellow raincoat and muddied jeans. He looked much smaller, much more fragile, than he had seemed to Bill in life, but, other than that, everything was the same. His eyes were deep and trusting, the same warm brown they’d been the day he’d died. His hair was light and mussed, almost like he’d forgotten to brush it. His mouth was turned downwards, like he was on the verge of crying. Georgie’s face, familiar and sad and trusting, pulled at the walls around Bill’s heart and threatened to overwhelm him with grief and guilt. 

“Jesus,” he choked, vision blurry. He hadn’t cried in a very long time, and it was as though his tear ducts were trying to make up for lost time by producing as many tears as they possibly could. They made quick tracks down his cheeks, rolling off his face and onto his sheets. He wiped them away as best he could and reached towards his bedside table, careful not to touch whatever stood there borrowing his brother’s face, and turned on the lamp. He winced once as the lamp flooded the room with warmth and light, and once more when he saw Georgie’s face, no longer half-hidden by darkness. The light shone on the dark circles around his eyes, showed how sunken and bruised his features really were. His skin was a sickly, unhealthy color that reminded Bill of cigarette smoke and crummy gas station bathrooms. 

“Oh, _jesus_,” Bill’s voice was strangled, and he fought to keep sudden, panicked sobs from tearing their way out of his throat. “Georgie?” 

The thing that might be Georgie slowly lifted a hand towards Bill in response, palm upwards as though asking for something. 

“Holy-” Bill choked. He scrambled backwards, fighting to untangle himself from his sheets and blankets. He fell gracelessly off the bed, hitting his tailbone painfully on the hardwood floor. 

Georgie was dead. Long, long dead. Whatever this was wasn’t here to crawl into Bill’s bed and complain that Bill’s feet were too cold, or be shushed by their parents for laughing too loudly so late at night. It was here to hurt, to taunt. To remind Bill of something that was, hopefully, as dead as Georgie. 

Bill fumbled in the semi-darkness for the baseball bat he kept under his bed, hands exploring the dusty darkness frantically. After a few long moments he pulled it out and stood quickly, pointing it forcefully in the thing’s direction. 

“We-we killed you,” Bill demanded, as though saying it was enough to make it true. It had been so long since he’d seen It in anything other than his nightmares; and now, looking at Georgie, he wondered for a quick moment why they’d been so scared of It all those years ago. Whatever stood by Bill’s bed did not ooze hate and evil and otherness like It did in his dreams. This thing was sad and lonely and afraid, but not evil. Still, what else could it be, if not It? “Y-y-y-y-you’re duh-duh-duh-duh-, we k-k-killed you!”

Georgie blinked slowly in reply. 

“You’re s-s-s-supposed to buh-buh-be d-d-dead,” Bill coughed. He wiped away the snot that had started dripping and bubbling from his nose.

He heard his parents stir in the next room over at the same time his phone started ringing. His parents weren’t a problem; they wouldn’t come in to check on him if they woke up, and even if they did they wouldn’t be able to see whatever was standing by his ball. The phone call, on the other hand, managed to pry his attention away from whatever was impersonating his dead brother so perfectly. There were only six people in the world who might call him this late at night, and nothing would keep him from answering. 

* * *

Just a few blocks away, Richie Tozier was busy losing a match of Mario Tennis Aces. 

It would have been embarrassing if anyone had been there to see it, but he was, thankfully, very much alone. He sat on the edge of his bed, wearing only a ratty pair of boxers and an extra-large t-shirt he’d found hidden in the back of Ben’s closet. The blue glow emanating from his TV screen was beginning to hurt his eyes; he took a quick swig of Mountain Dew to combat the discomfort. 

Nighttime had never been kind to Richie; he blamed his current losing streak on that fact. Along with bad luck in digital tennis matches, nighttime brought sleep, and sleep brought nightmares. Amongst the Losers, nightmares were nothing new. It seemed that they were the price you paid to battle a demonic clown and escape unscathed. Overall, it was much easier to stay awake as late as possible and risk falling asleep in AP Bio for the umpteenth time than revisit his one and only trip through Derry’s sewer system every fucking time he closed his eyes.

He was just getting ready to give his remote control a quick good luck kiss before the next round began when a sudden, rapid banging on his window almost made him soil the only clean pair of boxers he had left. 

“Holy shit,” Richie gasped. The contents of his stomach threatened to make a panicked appearance; Richie quickly choked them back down. The source of the noise knocked again, impatiently. Richie sighed, but a slow, easy smile made its way across his face. He leaned across his bed, stretching to open the window. He watched Stanley Uris crawl through it and smiled some more as Stan dusted himself off. “Gimme some warning next time, will ya? I almost shit my pants.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Stan mumbled. His shoulders, tense with _something_\- Richie guessed anxiety- slowly relaxed the longer he stood in Richie’s room. Stan bent down to unit his shoes and take off his socks, placing them neatly against the wall. Richie watched him work in silence. It made his heart do summersaults in his chest to see Stan the way he was now- flushed from the bike ride over, hair tangled by sleep and wind, soft and warm in his flannel pajama pants and cotton t-shirt. 

Stan said nothing when he was done, just stood quietly, solemnly considering the boy sitting before him. Richie gave him a moment to get whatever he needed from the silence between them and Stan soaked it up, slowly unclenching his jaw and shaking out the nerves that had settled in his fists. 

Eventually, Stan sighed, slow and grateful, and Richie decided it was alright to speak. “What’s crackin’, baby doll?”

Stan grimaced. “Bad dream.”

“Same one?” 

“Always the same.”

Richie hummed his displeasure and opened his arms, inviting Stanley to fill the space between them. Stan made his way towards them gratefully, crawling into Richie’s lap and leaning his head against Richie’s chest. Richie ran a hand through Stan’s hair, soft and gentle. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Maybe next time.” 

Richie hummed again. Stan always said that, and so far they had never talked about it. “Want some Mountain Dew?”

Stan rolled his eyes, even though Richie couldn’t see his face. “No, thanks. But I’d take something stronger if you had it.”

Richie grinned and gave the top of Stan’s head a quick kiss. “I think I might have somethin’ like that,” he leaned across the bed, careful to keep Stan safely balanced in his lap, to grab his phone. “Let’s get Big Bill over here, while we’re at it.”

“No,” Stan snatched the phone from Richie’s hands and held it close to his chest. Sleep wasn’t something any of them could take lightly, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to steal a single second of it from Bill. “Don’t wake him up.”

“Come on, you know he hates missing out on stuff. He can always sleep once he gets here if he wants to.” 

Their eyes locked and Richie grew suddenly serious; a battle had begun. Stan figured they were too old to keep using staring contests to settle disputes. Richie said they were too old to let sacred traditions die so flippantly. In the end, they usually served Stan’s interests anyway; he could hold a glare with the best of ‘em. A few long moments passed; the air thick with concentration. And then Richie did what he usually did when he knew he couldn’t win- cheated. 

Stan furiously blinked Richie’s sudden stream of warm, wet air out of his eyes. “I hate you,” he glared, hiding a grin, and held out the phone. 

Richie laughed a happy, victorious laugh and gave Stan another kiss, this one on his forehead. Perhaps his nighttime losing streak was over at last; if this night was going anyway like he thought it was, he was going to get lucky two times over. 

Pretty much everything about the three of them was built on luck. Luck, and a whole lot of hard fucking work. There were no guidebooks on how to date two of your best friends at once, no polyamorous trailblazers to show them the way. There was nothing, no one to tell them how to do this wonderful, lovely thing between the three of them. It was messy and hard sometimes, but god if it wasn’t good. All things considered, Richie thought they were doing pretty well for themselves. 

He smiled softly and wildly into Stanley’s hair as he dialed Bill’s number. 

* * *

Bill used the bat to keep at least three feet between him and Georgie as he walked slowly to the other side of the bed, towards the bedside table where his phone sat. 

He struggled to pick it up, hands shaking, and cursed quietly when he almost hung up accidentally. “Huh-huh-ello?”

“Billy boy!” Richie sang, too excited to notice that Bill’s stutter, which normally took a siesta whenever he was talking to someone he loved, had returned full force. “Get your ass over here; we’re having an impromptu fiesta, just me, you, and-.” 

“Ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh-_Richie_.” Bill interrupted. His body filled with relief at the sound of Richie’s voice, so much so that the bat almost slipped out of his hand. Here was someone who could understand, who might be able to help. He held his phone tight against his ear, as if doing so would transport him closer to Richie, away from whatever nightmare he was stuck in now. 

Richie said something quick to someone that wasn’t Bill, his voice muffled and far-away. He sounded worried when he turned his attention back to Bill, like it had finally hit him that something wasn’t quite right. “Yeah, Bill, it’s me. What’s wrong?”

“I-I-I,” he stammered, eyes locked on his dead brother. “I-I th-th-th-think Guh-Guh-Georgie i-i-is in m-m-muuhhh-my r-r-room.”

“Fuck, Bill, I can hardly understand a word you’re saying. Did you-did you say something about Georgie?”

Bill flinched, like someone had just made as if to slap him. He hadn’t heard anyone say that name aloud in years. “H-h-h-h-h-h-hhhhh-,” he took a frantic breath, as if that would dislodge the word stuck in his throat. “_Fuck_, R-Richie, G-g-g-Georgie’s in m-my fucking ruh-uh-room.”

Richie said something else to whoever was in the room with him. They seemed to argue for a short moment which seemed impossibly long to Bill. “Hey, Bill? Don’t move. We’re on our way.” 

The line went dead. 

* * *

“Why did you hang up?” Stan spat, trying for the fifteenth time to reach Bill again. “He’s not picking up the phone.”

Despite being walking distance away from Bill’s house, they’d quickly decided to borrow (steal was a better word, as Richie was banned from driving it) Richie’s mother’s car. It whined loudly as Richie forced it faster and faster through the darkened streets toward Bill’s house.

“Chillax, Stanley,” Richie spat back, voice much less poisonous than Stan’s had been, obviously not chillaxing himself. He leaned forward in his seat, knuckles white around the wheel, as if worrying would help them get there faster. “Big Bill knows how to take care of himself. Whatever’s goin’ on, he’ll be alright.”

Stan shot a quick look of incredulous disbelief in Richie’s direction. It was the kind of look he usually saved for those students of Derry High with less common sense than a bucket of dying paint. It screamed: _Are you an idiot?_ Stan himself screamed nothing and simply tried Bill’s number again.

No answer.

Richie urged the speedometer forward. 

* * *

Already a few streets away, Bill Denbrough was busy ignoring the fact that he’d been told to stay put. 

He’d made up his mind even before Richie had finished talking that he had to leave, to put as much distance between himself and whatever was in his room as possible. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the look of fear and desperation on Georgie’s face, even if it wasn’t _really_ Georgie he was looking at.

Georgie had followed as he’d stumbled out of the room, and Bill could see him now, standing in solemn silence at the end of their driveway. The absolute silence scared Bill more than anything else. In life, Georgie had been anything but silent. Contemplative, sometimes. But never quiet. Bill almost wished the thing that looked like Georgie would call after him, tell him to stop, something. But Georgie did nothing but watch him and Silver wobble unsteadily for a moment, his frightened gaze following Bill’s form as he made his way down the street. 

Bill’s legs and arms knew where they were going before Bill did. Silver took them quickly to their destination, and Bill hopped off the seat before the bike had any time to slow down. He tripped over one of the wheels and fell to the concrete, Silver landing on top of him. He grunted in pain, loose gravel digging its way into the sides of his bare arms. 

Bill looked up; he was on eye level with the sewer drain Georgie had spent his last moments crouched before. It did not mock or taunt or scream _haha! I killed your brother! _like Bill expected it to. It just sat, inconspicuously, like most sewer drains tended to do. 

He pushed Silver off of him and scrambled forward. He braced himself against the concrete, poking his head into the sewer as far as the laws of mass and physical space would allow. 

* * *

Stan and Richie were more surprised than they should have been to find Bill’s room empty. 

Stan poked around the room methodically, looking for any evidence of what had happened, anything to clue them in on what was going on. Richie swallowed the shitty Sherlock Holmes joke working its way up his throat and fidgeted nervously in the doorway. 

Stan picked up Bill’s phone, which sat on the bed, and frowned at it. “I don’t think he’s here.”

“I dunno, have you checked the bathroom? Maybe he’s taking a shit.” 

Stan ignored him. “Where would he have gone? His truck’s still in the driveway.”

Bill’s truck was always in the driveway. He only ever used one thing to get where he wanted to go. Stan and Richie remembered this fact simultaneously. 

“Oh, shit,” Riche groaned. “I’ll bet he’s halfway across the state by now.”

“No,” Stan shook his head. “He’d want to _go_ somewhere. You said he saw Georgie, yes? What places do you think of when you think about Georgie?”

Simultaneously, Richie and Stan remembered something else. Remembered the last, rainy day George Denbrough had lived to see and the last place he had visited before his death.

They ran back to the car. 

* * *

The overwhelming smell of rotting trash and stagnant water coming from the sewer drain made Bill want to gag. He turned his head to the side and took a quick whiff of fresh air before turning back to towards the opening. 

“Wah-wah-wah-aht d-d-do y-you wuh-uh-want?” Bill shouted. “T-tell me!” 

The drain did not grace his hurt and anger with an answer. Somewhere down the street, someone turned on a porch light. 

Bill strained to see inside the sewer. He was so focused on making sense of the darkness he found there that he almost didn’t notice the light tug on his sweatshirt. His heart stopped dead in its track and he scrambled upwards to face his death, sure Pennywise himself had crawled from his hiding place to wipe the last of the Denbrough children off the face of the Earth. Instead of finding a killer clown, there stood the thing that looked like Georgie. 

Georgie’s face was on fire with panic and fear. Blood streamed from beneath his right jacket-sleeve and down his hand, making soft splattering sounds on the asphalt. Bill’s heart ached, seeing Georgie’s face the way he was sure it must have been before It had killed him. He fell onto his knees and pulled the Georgie thing to him. Georgie felt as real as he looked- solid and firm. He even smelled a little like Georgie had too, like outdoors and the candles their mother liked to light on rainy days. Bill broke then, and sobbed painfully into Georgie’s small, cold chest. Georgie let himself be cried on and did not protest as Bill tightened his grip. He did nothing at all except look down at Bill’s head mournfully and continue drip drip dripping blood. 

And this was how Stan and Richie happened upon the final third of their threesome, clutching onto nothing and sobbing endless, heart wrenching sobs.

And so began the haunting of Bill Denbrough.


	2. georgie, meet patty

Bill Denbrough is a story-teller. 

Need somebody to tell you what happened on last night’s showing of Saturday Night Live? Richie Tozier’ll do the job just fine, sure, but if you find him chances are good you’ll find Denbrough too, and he’ll make you feel as though you’re in the audience, staring right at the actors and actresses themselves. Didn’t feel like reading a book, but have to turn in an essay about it in an hour? Bill won’t write the essay for you, but he’ll tell the story as though he lived it himself and make it come alive clearer than any movie or SparkNotes article ever could. Words are both his home and weapon of choice- they are where he goes to rest and what he uses to look the world squarely in the eye, accept it for the shit-show it is, and continue on. It is because of all this, and because of their love and reverence for him, that Richie and Stan so easily believe his story about Georgie’s reappearance. And it is because of this that Bill manages to convince both of them to spend their Saturday locked inside the Derry City Library, scouring book after book for an explanation to their situation. 

The table they’ve occupied for the better part of two hours now is completely filled with books. There are some on psychology and mental health, others on poltergeists and demons, ESP and clairvoyance, ley-lines, mediums, spirits, psychics, religions of all kinds, and all other things paranormal or strange. Every now and then, Stan looks up from his notes and glares at the mess before him, as though willing it to disappear. His side of the table is neatly arranged, with a hefty stack of books on his left and pages of notes on his right. Periodically, Richie stands up quietly and takes a stroll through the shelves, shaking excess energy out through his hands and making idle chatter with disgruntled library-goers who would much rather be left alone. His side of the table is busy but not particularly messy, with a few books open at once and a page filled with messy handwriting and scribbled doodles sitting off to the side. Every few minutes, Bill glances to his right to see how Georgie is fairing in their new surroundings and his stomach drops, like he’s seeing his dead brother’s figure for the first time. His side of the table is empty save for one book, opened to one of the earlier pages, his chair angled as far to the left as possible. 

All three (living) boys jump as a large pile of books are dropped on the table. Mr. Cunningham, Derry’s only librarian, dusts his hands off and sighs. He stares daggers at the dozens of books already scattered across the table, imagining all the shelving he’ll be doing once the boys leave. Stan coughs to grab his attention and offers a slow, easy smile. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Cunningham. We really appreciate your help.” 

Mr. Cunningham smiles back, previous displeasure forgotten. Bill and Richie share a glance, and Bill doesn’t try to hide his grin when Richie sticks a finger down his throat. If Bill’s talent is storying telling, Stan’s is kiss-assery. “My pleasure, Mr. Uris. Let me know if you need anything else,” he turns to Bill and Richie. Richie opens his mouth to say something, but Bill gives his foot a good warning kick before anything can come out. “You boys make sure to clean up after yourselves.” 

Richie, lounging in the chair on Bill’s other side, pretends to shoot the librarian with double finger guns as he walks away. “God,” he groans. “Why do adults always look at you like they want you to suck their dicks?”

Stan smirks as he sorts through the new books, distributing an even amount to each of them. “Someone should warn them they’ll have to get in line.”

“Wowza wowza,” Richie grins. “Who gets to go first, me or Billy boy here?”

Stan absentmindedly flips through the pages of a book. “Who said you would be taking turns?”

Richie considers that for a moment. He leans forward in his seat, his eyes following Stan’s long, graceful fingers as they turn page after page. His face turns a splotchy, excited red, like he wishes Stan’s fingers were busy doing something else. He coughs. “Is it weird to get a hard-on in a library?”

Stanley doesn’t look up as he neatly writes something onto a sheet of paper. “No. I’m sure Mr. Cunningham will be very flattered to know you think so much of him.”

Bill clears his throat. 

“Sorry,” Stan offers Bill a small, guilty smile. He shoots a glare in Richie’s direction. “Let’s get back to work.” 

“Wuh-wuh-well,” Bill starts, looking down at the single book in front of him. He’d picked it from the pile on a whim, its plain, weathered cover certainly not making it the most interesting book of the bunch. Nonetheless, the first page had caught his attention and managed to hold it for a good two hours. He places it in the middle of the table, and Richie and Stan lean forward to get a better look at it. “I duh-duh-duh-oh-oh-n’t think w-w-we n-need to luh-luh-ook a-anymore.” 

Stan raises an eyebrow. “This is a book about ghosts, Bill.” 

“Har de har har,” Richie mimes a laugh, but his face is pale. “That’s real funny, Denbrough. You know, I’m pretty sure I saw the ghost of Stan’s virginity in the back of my mom’s Honda Accord. Should we be worrying about that, too, ‘cause I think the warranty is about to-”

“Wuh-wuh-why,” Bill interrupts.“d-did we even geh-geh-get b-books about th-th-this sah-sah-stuff if you guh-guys th-think it’s suh-suh-something eh-eh-else?”

Stan looks at Bill, eyes full of pity and exhaustion. “Come on. You can’t really think George-, a ghost is following you around.”

“Wuh-wuh-ood y-you rather him b-be here b-b-because of Pah-Pah-Pah-Pah-”

“Uh,” now it’s Richie’s turn to interrupt. “I’d like to take a minute to remind the audience that we killed that son of a bitch, like, a long time ago. 

Stan slowly sits back in his seat, staring off into the distance, past Richie’s head. He shudders, like he sees something there that has no resemblance to the quiet rows of books that surround them. “We don’t know for sure he’s dead.”

Richie lets out a strangled laugh. His face is a sickly white, like he’s going to need to know the quickest way to the bathroom in a minute or two. “Do you remember what he looked like before he fell down that stinkin’ hole in the earth? If that motherfucker’s alive, I’m-”

“S-s-so you th-think it’s a guh-guh-ghost, t-too?”

Richie frowns. “Now, listen, I never said that.”

“Th-th-then wuh-wuh- _ what _ ?”

“I mean,” Richie shifts anxiously in his seat. He places two of his books in the middle of the table, on top of Bill’s and flips through them for a moment, looking for specific pages. “take a look at this. It could be somethin’ like high levels of mold in your house or, hell, I don’t know, stress-induced hallucinations or some shit. But it’s not ghosts and it’s not the fucking clown.” 

“I’m nuh-nuh-nuh-not kuh-kuh-razy.”

“That’s not what he’s saying, Bill.” Stan takes one of Richie’s books, eyes scanning it hopefully.

“Of course not,” Richie worriedly runs a hand through his hair. It falls over his eyes and, for a moment, he looks just like he did five years ago. Scared and small and not at all ready to face the ugly truth that lives under Derry. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and the resemblance is gone.“I just- if it is a ghost, and I’m not saying I think it is, what next? We get a cool van and a talking dog, buy Bev a purple dress and call ourselves the Mystery Gang?”

Bill sits up straight in his chair and puts on the face he used to get them all to follow him into Neibolt all those years ago. “Wuh-wuh-we’re nah-nah-not t-telling th-the uh-uh-others about Juh-Juh-Georgie.”

Stan and Richie stare at Bill for a moment, eyes wide with shock (in Richie’s case) and frustration (in Stan’s). Stan closes his eyes and rubs his temples.

Richie’s shock quickly simmers into hurt and quiet indignation. Bill might be the leader of this operation, but they were a team of seven members, no matter what. “Now, wait just a minute-”

A small, quiet cough from the end of the table reminds the three of them that they are not alone. They aren’t in the clubhouse or the Barrens, or even crammed together, knees overlapping, on Bill’s bed. They’re just three boys with voices that are filled with too much fear and unspoken anger for a library, speaking too loudly about things better discussed in private. 

They looked up to see a girl, about their age, glancing uncomfortably at each of their faces. For a moment, Bill thinks she stares right past him, right at Georgie, but then her eyes reach Stan’s and her face visibly brightens, like she’s found a lifeboat amongst a storm of angsty teenagers and sad, invisible, dead boys. “Stan! Sorry. For interrupting, I mean. I just, uh. Do you guys have,” she holds out a tiny slip of paper to Stan. “that?” 

Stan takes a deep breath, pushing down the stress and worry their conversation had created enough to force his mouth into a tight smile. “I don’t think so,” he stands, eager to leave. “I can help you look for it though, if you want.”

Relief floods her face. “Would you really?”

“Of course,” Stan turns to face Richie and Bill. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again. He shoots them both a frustrated glare. “I’ll be back.”

Richie slumps in his chair and watches Stan and the girl walk away. He can tell by the tightness in Stan’s shoulders that he hasn’t forgotten what they’ve been talking about, but his face is light and he says something that makes the girl laugh. A few steps later they’re out of sight and Richie slumps even further down into his chair, so that Bill can only see the top of his head. “Who was that?”

Bill crosses his arms on the table and puts his head down on top of them. Georgie watches him do so. “S-s-some new guh-guh-irl in one of S-s-stan’s c-c-classes. Puh-puh-atty, I th-think.” 

Richie glares moodily at his corner of the table. Fucking ghosts, messing everything up. Fucking clowns. Fucking Derry. He waits for his stomach to calm down before speaking again. “This fucking sucks, man.” 

Bill glances at Georgie and fights the urge to cry. “T-t-tell muh-muh-me a-about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter should have a little more action! as always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated and i am @courageouskaspbrak on tumblr! lots of love and thanks for reading! <3


	3. hey, billy idol? wanna fuck?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from now on this fic will be split into two parts: 1) the haunting of bill denbrough and 2) the story of how richie, stan, and bill ended up together. i hope you enjoy the first installment of part two!

**one year ealier. halloween**

Richie was scared shitless of ghosts. 

Not that he believed in them or anything. Ghosts were baby stuff- the kinda thing your parents told you stories about to keep you from sneaking out of your bed at night, a question you could ask in Truth or Dare if you didn’t have the balls to go for something juicer like  _ who do you have a crush on? _

_ Truth: Do you believe in ghosts? _

_ Truth: I picked dare, asshole.  _

It wasn’t the concept of ghosts that scared him (though the thought of seeing one, all vague and shapeless and otherworldly, did give him a strong case of the heebie-jeebies) so much as the reason they (possibly) existed at all: death. The Grim Reaper had first introduced himself to Richie at age seven when he’d forced his parents to help him bury his first pet fish in the backyard. Ever since then, death and Richie had become pretty chummy. He knew how to recognize fresh grief in someone’s eyes, or how much the atmosphere in a room could tell you about the circumstances of someone’s death. He knew how it felt to be on the verge of dying, how it felt to see those you love perilously close to losing their lives. Death had chased him down the street, laughing, as he clung to Bill’s back, silently urging Silver to go faster faster faster. Death was not a fun thing. 

So yeah, Richie was scared of ghosts. And unfortunately for him, there were a lot of them at the fuckin’ party. 

Richie figured you had to be a real chump to dress up like a ghost for Halloween. Out of all the cool, creepy shit in the world, you decide to put a sheet over your head and walk around, trying not to look like a white terrorist from the 40s? No thanks, champ. Not that he’d dressed up as anything scary- he was more than content with strapping his guitar to his back, smudging his eyelids with whatever he found floating around in his mother’s makeup bag, spiking up his hair a bit, and calling himself Billy Idol. Eddie was around somewhere too, in an outfit similar to Richie’s, doing his best David Bowie.

If you ignored the ghosts, the party itself wasn’t half bad. The music was loud, even compared to Richie’s standards, and it had been good so far, so the DJ obviously wasn’t a complete asshole. The crowd was big and cramped together tightly, like crayons you couldn’t get to fit back in the box just right, and everyone seemed just drunk enough to forget what it meant to feel awkward, but not drunk enough that they needed to worry about someone accidentally burning the apartment down in a drunken stupor. 

Richie held his drink over his head as he made his way through the crowd. He saw Mike and Ben crammed close on the crappiest couch he had ever seen, with Beverly perched on the arm, leaning into Ben to keep from sliding off. She caught his eye and grinned, holding up her cup at him in greeting, her other hand softly tangled in Ben’s hair. Richie winked and blew her a kiss, face warming at the bright, bubbly laugh he received in response. Mike and Ben laughed too, faces glowing with beer and love, though they hadn’t seen Richie and couldn’t know what Beverly was laughing at. Beverly was just like that, Richie figured, contagious with happiness. 

He walked on, stopping every now and then to chat up somebody in a cool costume. When he stopped to talk, people listened. They leaned forward to hear him better, and Richie glowed under their enthusiasm. They laughed, and Richie laughed with them. Richie was born to work a party, to feed off the energy of a crowd of really wasted kids and use his charm and humor to nurture it into something fantastic. 

Party Richie was unstoppable. 

Party Stanley Uris, on the other hand, was not. Richie spotted him from across the room, staring moodily at some obscure corner Richie couldn’t really see and slowly nursing something in a styrofoam cup. He made his way towards Stan, a good, hearty joke on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out, when he saw what Stan had been staring at so sharply. 

It was Party Bill Denbrough, messily swapping spit with some brunette. 

Richie slung a sympathetic arm around Stan’s shoulders, cringing when Stan flenched. The past few years had been harder on Stan than any of the rest of them, and it showed. Stan claimed the bags under his eyes were Gucci, but Richie wasn’t sure Gucci sold anything so depressing to look at. He looked so fucking tired all the time, like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and was only just strong enough to keep it from crashing down on him. It was hard, being close to someone so close to breaking, but Richie was close too breaking too. They understood each other as they had always understood each other; silently and profoundly. 

“Whoa, there buddy boy. It’s just me.”

Stan continued to stare daggers in Bill’s direction but leaned into Richie’s touch. Richie watched imaginary bullets fly out of his eyes, winced as they hit Bill square in the back. KO! Goodbye, Billy-boy.

It was kinda funny, seeing Stan look at Bill so murderously, when he normally only looked at Bill in one way if he dared look at him at all. 

You see,  Stanley Uris had a particular way of looking at the people he loved. 

It reminded Richie of freshman year when they’d read The Iliad in English. He couldn’t remember the specifics of the story now, three years later, though he knew there’d been a lot of blood and guts and fighting and other cool shit like that. But there had also been a love story, one that had made his chest feel too tight and his breaths come in short, ragged gasps. Patroclus and Achilles, for whom lovers didn’t seem like a big enough word. Sometimes, when the clubhouse had been quiet for a while and all seven of them were absorbed in their own, individual tasks, Richie would see Stan’s eyes burn fiercely with devotion and love, the way Richie imagined Achilles’ eyes had burned the moment he’d learned of Patroclus’ death. It was kinda scary, to see that much want and hope and admiration in someone when a moment before they’d been quietly playing solitaire. It’s intensity made Richie sigh in relief, then, when he tracked Stanley’s gaze and saw it firmly settled on Bill. If anyone could live up to the weight of that look, it would be Big Bill, no doubt about it. 

“Ya know,” Richie started. The bullets continued to fly. He waved his free hand in front of Stan’s face. He would have grinned as Stan jumped as though he’d just processed that someone was actually standing next to him, if only Stan didn’t look so weathered. Richie was glad they were inside; he figured a stiff wind would be enough to knock Stan down so hard nobody would be able to pick him back up again. “Welcome back to the real world, Pistol-Pete. Like I was sayin’, ya know, I’m sure neither of them would notice if you just, like, joined in. Push the chick out of the way and you’re golden. 

“Ha,” Stan deadpanned. He swirled around the little liquid left in his cup and watched as the tiny beer tornado he created slowly settled. He smiled to himself, thinking of a joke. “Cluck cluck.”

Richie turned his attention, where it had been settled on watching some dude trying to crowd surf, back to Stan. He laughed at the loud thud that announced he had failed. “Hey, uh,” Richie took Stan’s drink and set it on the floor. “Not to be rude or anything but you look like absolute shit.”

Stan looked down at his yellow shirt and frowned. “I was going for piss.” 

“Shit, sorry. You look like absolute piss.”

“Thanks.”

Richie smiled weakly, admiring the dark bags under Stan's eyes. “You, uh, been sleepin’ lately?”

Stan shrugged.

“How much?”

“Enough. You?”

“From the looks of it, more than you. Trashmouth needs his beauty sleep.”

Stan smirked. “If only it actually did anything.”

Richie smirked back. “I’m gonna go find Eds, and then we’ll head out, alright?”

“Sleepover?”

“Yeah, if you want.”

“Is Eddie invited?”

“He’s gotta wash off that makeup somewhere that’s at least a thousand feet away from his fucking mom. So yeah, I’d say he’s invited.” 

Stan rubbed at his eyes, like he was trying to buff away the exhaustion that had settled in them.“I’ll meet you guys in the car.”   
  


* * *

**five hours earlier**

“You better not poke me in the eye, asshole.”

“Tsk tsk,” Richie clucked. His face was perilously close to Eddie’s own, so much so that Eddie figured he might be able to count every single one of Richie’s long, dark eyelashes if he wanted to. Not that he did. Richie put on a British accent as he traced the edge of Eddie’s eye with some of his mom’s eyeliner. “You would do well to have more faith in me, good sir.”

Richie had sworn up and down that the makeup wasn’t used, at least not very much, anyway, but Eddie still had to work very hard not to think about how many germs were on the brush, in the mascara itself, and by now probably all over his fucking eyeballs. He was sitting on top of the kitchen counter too, which would have worried him if he hadn’t watched Mrs. Tozier clean it before the others had arrived. And so he sat, legs pressed into the counter by Richie’s weight, which was all but fully leaned against him. It was uncomfortable to have the edge of the counter dig so furiously into the backs of his thighs, but other than that it wasn’t  _ all _ bad. In fact, it wasn’t bad at all. 

Beverly walked in to grab a bottle of water from the fridge and stopped take a look at Richie’s handiwork. 

“How’s it looking?” Eddie asked anxiously. He was kinda worried about the whole makeup thing. I mean, it was Halloween, so wearing makeup was technically fine, but it felt heavy on his face in a way Eddie wasn’t used to. And what if the wrong person saw him wearing it? Rumors flew fast in Derry, and he didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. No fucking way. 

Beverly nodded her approval. “Pretty darn good. You sure you haven’t done this before, Rich?”

“Nope,” Richie replied, popping the P. “What can I say, I’ve got the magic touch.” He turned to wink at Beverly, and then to look out in the living room, where the others were getting their costumes ready. “Hey, who put on Ariana fucking Grande? I’m pretty sure the rules were clear- spooky music only. Was it Ben? Where is that motherfucker?”

“I th-think he’s taking a sh-shit,” Bill laughed, ducked as Stan threw a marker at his face. 

“One can only listen to Monster Mash so many times,” Beverly threw one last reassuring smile in Eddie’s direction before turning to leave. “This group could use some more girl power anyway.”

“Baby, you’re the only girl power- oh shit, where’d she go?”

“Can you hurry?” Eddie huffed. “My legs are starting to fall asleep.” 

“Patience,” Richie returned to work on Eddie’s face, eyes squinting so much in concentration Eddie wondered how he could see at all.“Rome wasn’t built in a day, if I remember correctly.”

“Are you implying you were there? No wonder your breath smells like a mummy’s asshole.”

“Hah!” Richie grinned. “That’s a good one, Eds. That being said, though, I hope you won’t mind I used your toothbrush to freshen up. Gotta have pearly-whites for the party.”

Eddie frowned. “You didn’t.”

Richie’s grin grew, though Eddie wasn’t sure how that was possible. Richie was like that, getting brighter and bolder all the time. He stepped backward, freeing Eddie’s legs. Eddie successfully repressed the fact that he immediately missed the close, quiet intimacy they’d shared while Richie had worked. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. But you’re finished now, Eddie my boy. Go take a look-see, tell me whatcha think.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes but hopped off the counter to do just that. He walked past the living room, where Bill, Stan, Beverly, Mike, and Ben were crammed around the Tozier family’s small coffee table, passing around makeup and glitter and bopping in place to the music blaring from someone’s phone. The view would have made him smile if he’d stopped long enough to appreciate it, but he continued on, walking past the bathroom and into Richie’s room. He opened Richie’s closest and gasped at the reflection he saw in the full-length mirror hanging from the door. 

He looked _ hot _ . 

Beverly had taken him shopping the other day, and the black jeans and leather jacket they’d bought fit him perfectly. His hair, spiked up with gel, looked cooler than it ever had the way he usually styled it (laying flat, with his bangs swooping to the right) and Richie’s makeup- well Beverly hadn’t been lying when she’d said it was good. In fact, it was  _ amazing _ . His eyes were dark circles, filled in with black almost everywhere. But even though he didn’t have the first idea how makeup worked, he could tell there was skill involved, could tell Richie had done some shading or blending or whatever the hell it was called. He felt confident, and for a moment he felt like crying, too. When was the last time he had felt this good? He couldn’t remember. He shoved the thought into a mental trashcan and prayed the mental dumpster would come by soon to take it away completely so he could enjoy this fucking party. 

Eddie rarely went to shindigs like this one. He told himself it was too much trouble to think of a clever lie every time he wanted to go out, harder still to hide the smoky, yeasty smell that followed him home. In reality, it was fear that held him back- fear of his mother finding out, fear of disappointing her, fear of going and not being enough, being so boring that even the Losers, his _ family _ , would ditch him. This fear, of not being enough, was irrational. The Losers loved each other, even now, years after they had met. Their respect and love for each other showed itself constantly, in the way someone always stayed home with Eddie while the others went to a party, in the way Richie’s eyes looked over everyone to see how they were doing, in the way Beverly always seemed to know when you needed a hug. No, Eddie did not normally go to parties, but his love for his family and love for their excitement (that and a very long, impassioned speech by one Richie Tozier) had convinced him to tag along just this once, for Halloween’s sake. 

He walked back to join the others, sitting down quietly next to Stan. His heart sped up, a bad omen for the night, Eddie thought, as he waited for someone to notice how he looked and pass judgment on it. Stan looked up first. 

He looked Eddie up and down. “You look good,” he observed. Eddie felt his chest fill with pride and relief. Everyone else glanced up from their work to see what all the fuss was about. 

Ben whistled. 

“Wow,” Mike smiled. 

“Wow’s right,” Beverly grinned. “You look great, Eddie.”

“Thanks,” Eddie replied with quiet pride. They continued to stare, eyes bright. Eddie’s confidence soared to uncharted territory. “What’s everybody staring at? Finish your fucking costumes.”

“Yes, sir,” Bill saluted. His costume was simple, just a cheap batman mask and a simple black T-shirt and jeans, with a paper Batman logo taped over his chest. He was busy helping everyone else finish their costumes and Eddie figured, trying his best not to think of his dead brother, who he would never be able to share a Halloween with ever again. 

A moment later, Richie walked out of his room and into the living room. Eddie looked away quickly; Richie’s eyes were bright with something Eddie couldn’t exactly recognize: excitement, maybe? Nerves? Either way, it made Eddie’s heart spin in his chest. He heard Richie strum something soft and sweet on his guitar, smiled as Mike whooped at him to keep playing. Eddie risked another glance, looked away quickly when his heart started misbehaving again. 

Richie looked even better than Eddie had thought his own reflection had. Their costumes, if that’s what they could be called, were a twin set. Richie wore the same kind of jeans, ripped in various places, with a t-shirt Eddie had seen a million times before and a worn jacket Eddie knew belonged to his Richie’s dad. His hair was crazier than usual, sticking up in all sorts of wild places, and the dark makeup around his eyes made them look wild. 

He looked- well, he looked alright. 

It was Beverly’s turn to whistle. “Did it just get hot in here, or is that just me?”

“No, I think that was me, sweetheart,” Richie grinned. “Are you assholes ready? Cause last I checked,” he looked down at his wrist at a watch that didn’t exist. “we were supposed to leave, like, twenty minutes ago.” 

Bill stood first, grabbing his keys. “Suh-Suh-Stan and Eddie with Richie, everybody else in muh-my car, alright?”

Bill’s group groaned simultaneously. Eddie smirked. 

“What?” Bill looked around, confused.

“Billy-boy,” Richie put a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “I would rather have a blowdryer on full blast shoved up my ass than get into a moving vehicle with you behind the wheel.” 

“I’m not a bad driver,” Bill huffed, but let Mike gently take the keys from his hands.

“I’ll drive,” Mike smiled at Bill apologetically. 

Eddie’s confidence rolled down the window and jump out about three blocks after they left Richie’s house. A few hours and many, many drinks later his confidence had still not returned, but had been replaced by a strange sort of willful determination. 

Some girl had made herself comfortable on his lap and was now trying to explore the inside of his mouth with her tongue. It wasn’t, like,  _ awful  _ or anything. I mean, he could tell she’d smoked a lot of weed sometime before coming to the party and had also eaten something cheesy and artificial. Doritos, maybe? Or possibly Cheetos. Either way, it was utterly disgusting. The only things that kept him in the plastic lawn chair he was currently seated in were the uncomfortable weight of her butt pressing against his legs, the ungodly amount of alcohol weighing down his stomach, and most importantly his determination to prove something to himself, though he had no idea what that was. Her tongue continued its exploration, and Eddie wondered what he should be doing. There was no way he was going to shove his tongue in her mouth, not with all he knew about her dietary and recreational habits. No way José. He wound his fingers through her hair instead, like he’d seen people do in the movies. Someone bumped his arm and he pulled a little. She moaned, a low, quiet sound. 

_ Dear god _ , Eddie thought, fighting the urge to cringe back into his seat, as far away from her as he could get.  _ What the fuck was that? Is she dying? Jesus christ, tell me she’s not dying.  _

He opened his eyes and looked around frantically. No one else seemed concerned about the girl  _ moaning _ on his lap, so maybe everything was alright. He closed them again, if only to get her face out his line of sight. It seemed harder to stay in his seat when he could see. He sighed internally; who knew kissing could be this stressful?

He almost pissed himself with relief when someone tapped him on the shoulder and coughed, trying to get his attention. He peeled himself away from the girl on his lap and looked up to see Richie frowning at him.

“Yo,” Richie said, voice flat. “Stan’s ready to head out.”

Eddie struggled to remember who Stan was again. Curly hair, into birds and shit? Seemed about right. “Uh-”

“He’s busy,” the girl hummed. 

“I can see that,” Richie deadpanned back. “But now he’s going to be busy leaving.” 

The girl turned to Eddie, pouting. “Do you wanna leave?”

“Uh-”

“Look, we can chat about this all day if you really want to but could we, uh, do it in the car?”

“I’m pretty sure he wants to stay here.”

“Look chica, I’m pretty sure he’s got better stuff to do than suck face with you, alright?”

Richie and the girl continued to argue, but Eddie wasn’t listening. He’d heard a distorted version of what Richie had actually said, a sharp version that said “Eddie Kaspbrak does not want to be kissing girls.” And that was not true. He wanted to kiss girls, he really did. Girls were like, pretty and shit. Was Richie trying to start something? Fucking Richie, always poking at his buttons, long after it wasn’t funny anymore. Richie, who had no idea how hard it was just to exist sometimes, Richie who always had a joke handy if a conversation had lulled or gotten awkward, Richie who never had to worry whether or not his friends actually wanted him across because it was so obvious that they did. Eddie longed for a drink, something to get the awful taste of the girl- what was her name?- out of his mouth and clear his head a little bit. 

“Hey,” he interrupted. Richie and the girl looked up at him in surprise, like they’d forgotten it was him they were arguing over in the first place. “ _ fuck _ you, Richie.”

Richie’s face scrunched up like it sometimes did when he’d spent too long working on homework and letters and numbers had started to dance across the paper. “Huh?”

“I said,” Eddie started, voice slurring, “fuck  _ you _ , asshole. I’m, uh, I wanna stay here.” 

“Eds, come on. You’re like,” Richie laughed uncomfortably. “really fucked up.”

“So, what? Am I not allowed to have a good time? I’m kissing this girl. And stop fucking calling me that, dipshit.” 

Their eyes met, and Richie searched Eddie’s for what seemed like a long while, long enough for Eddie to discover that he really needed to take a piss. Eventually, Richie sighed and raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. Ride home with Bill for all I care.”

Eddie watched Richie shuffle off, watched him peel Bill away from the girl he was kissing and tell him something, gesturing wildly in Eddie’s direction. Bill nodded solemnly, then went back to making out. Eddie’s girl started kissing his neck and he closed his eyes, though for some strange reason Richie followed him into the darkness, his figure solid against the darkness of his eyelids. And suddenly, kissing wasn’t so stressful anymore.   
  


* * *

Stan sat in the car and tried not to fall asleep. 

The music from the party was still fairly loud, even outside, and he focused on trying to decipher the lyrics instead of paying attention to the heavy hole in his chest. It always felt more noticeable at night, like throughout the day the edges had crumbled and made the hole even bigger than before. Maybe he should have dressed up like Swiss cheese instead. Hah. 

He looked down at his yellow shirt and frowned. He’d worn it as a joke; the other day Richie had made a Stanley Urine wisecrack and Bill had laughed, loudly and freely, and so Stan had dressed up as Stanley Urine. But Bill hadn’t seemed to notice, and if he had, had kept it to himself. 

He sighed and leaned his head against the seat. Richie’s car smelled so much like weed Stan felt like he could get high just sitting here, waiting for Richie and Eddie to come out. It would’ve been nice, to feel high. Alcohol had never done much for Stanley except make the world feel a little blurry, sometimes a little far away. That was nice, for a while, but the hole always returned and sent fresh waves of pain and fear crashing against his heart. 

It was like the memories of that summer, the one filled with death and dirt and sewers, started to scab over as the sun came up each day, and all was well for a little while. Then, something (or someplace, as Stanley suspected in the back of his mind) slowly started picking at it until by the time he laid his head down at night he could remember it all as clearly as though it had just happened. And then the nightmare would come like it always did. 

Stan’s eyes flew open a second after the car door did, and he jumped a little as it was slammed closed. Richie stabbed the keys into the ignition. 

“Jesus, Richie,” Stan glanced in the back. “Where’s Eddie?”

“Not coming,” Richie grumbled.

Ah, that explained it. Stan leaned forward in his seat to get a good look at Richie’s face but was slammed backward as Richie backed quickly out of his parking space. “ _ Jesus,  _ Richie.”

“Sorry,” Richie grumbled again. 

They drove on in silence for a while, Stan too tired to put much effort into wondering what had made Richie so frustrated. But as they drove, Stan inferred that something much more powerful than frustration was working its way through Richie’s head. He could practically see Richie open a Pandora’s box of sharp, slippery thoughts. Every now and then Richie winced like one of them had pierced his heart.

By the time they had arrived at the Tozier household, Richie was practically bleeding all over from thought wounds. His eyes were heavy and sincere, and Stan had to look away from them for fear he would start to cry. 

“Are you,” Richie started after a while, his voice breaking. “Are you tired of, like, feeling so much all the time?”

Stan thought for a minute. Mostly, he was tired of feeling the wide vast of nothingness in his chest, but he supposed he felt too much at times. Like in the second after waking, when it was hard to tell if he was really safe in his bed or if he was back in the sewers. Either way, he got what Richie was trying to say. “Yeah.”

Richie took off his glasses, carefully placed them on the dashboard. He rubbed his eyes, like trying to get rid of something that had collected there. Stan looked away. 

Richie sniffed. “Whatdya think we should do about it?” 

That was an interesting question- Stan hadn’t previously entertained the idea that something  _ could _ be done about it. The hole was too big to fill with alcohol, and weed could only do so much. He racked his brain for something he hadn’t tried, blushed at the first thought that popped into his mind. He probably wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t been so utterly exhausted, but luckily for his future self, he was, in fact, utterly exhausted. “I hear sex is nice.”

Richie considered Stan seriously. His eyes seemed so much smaller without his glasses. Stan fought back a smile. 

“You joking?” 

“Not really.”

“You’re serious?”

“I’m not gonna beg if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So, what? We just fuck all our problems away?”

“I think it’s called fornication.”

Richie frowned, ignoring the joke. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

Stan crossed his heart, trying to ignore the nagging fear that Richie was taking so long to respond because he was busy thinking of a rejection. “As a heart attack.”

Richie thought for a moment. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“I mean, it’s worth a shot. As long are you’re, like, actually being serious.” 

Stan glared. Richie grinned, and Stan saw some of the pain in Richie’s eyes drain away. 

They sat in silence a little while longer. Then suddenly, just as Stan is started to wonder if he should have kept his mouth shut, Richie, confident as ever, leans over the center console and gently pulls Stanley’s face up by his chin until they’re looking each other in the eyes. Stan can swear his heart stops beating for a moment; he’s seen his father do this very thing to his mother thousands of times, and wonders for a fleeting second if that’s where Richie learned it too. And then Stan is being kissed, very softly, and he feels some of the giant hole in his chest slowly begin to fill.


End file.
